


What's Yours Is Mine

by lovetincture



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Dean Winchester, Demonic Possession, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Sharing a Body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:54:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26627839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: It’s almost, almost a relief when he feels the first trickle of smoke past his lips. It worms its way inside, despite Sam clamping his mouth shut tight, licking at the seam of Sam’s mouth with a sensation that feels like a ripple of static current, like the suggestion of a tongue, until Sam’s mouth parts open on a sigh.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 84





	What's Yours Is Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Because thebeespatella asked me "Can Demon Dean possess Sam?" This is all their fault.

The thing about demons—the thing about demons is that they don’t need permission.

Dean smokes out of his body, and Sam tells himself it’s that—it’s the shock of it, of seeing something leave Dean’s body and knowing that it’s  _ Dean. _ He tells himself that’s why he doesn’t—what?

Run? Hide? Fight?

It’s almost, almost a relief when he feels the first trickle of smoke past his lips. It worms its way inside, despite Sam clamping his mouth shut tight, licking at the seam of Sam’s mouth with a sensation that feels like a ripple of static current, like the suggestion of a tongue, until Sam’s mouth parts open on a sigh.

Dean fills him in a rush, flooding his nose and mouth, and he’d choke on it if he could. His body shudders around it, clenching around the invasion, the knowledge that he isn’t the only one alive in here.

He can  _ feel _ Dean’s satisfied purr.

“Well ain’t this cozy, Sammy?” Dean’s drawl comes out of Sam’s mouth.

Sam screams in his head but not with his mouth.

Dean frowns with Sam’s mouth. “Wait. Lemme try— testing, one, two.”

Sam claws at his throat. He flattens himself against the wall and feels nothing but a cold rush of all-too-familiar fear. It’s  _ in _ him, he— 

“It’s hardly the first time I’ve been in you,” Dean points out with Sam’s voice.

“How can. You  _ can’t.”  _ He can talk again, look at that. He can talk but can’t move—shitty trade-off.

“Sure I can. Look, ma, no hands.” Sam holds up his hands and wiggles him in front of his face.

“Stop.”

“But we’re having so much fun.”

“Get out.”

“But I just got here.”

The absence of panic is fucking alarming. His brain is screaming— _ screaming _ at the danger—but he can’t do anything about it. His breath stays steady and even, his heart keeps perfect time. His hands don’t even so much as shake.

“Dean,  _ please,” _ Sam says, and it’s a wheedle and a whine. He’s begging, and that does something—but it’s not the something Sam was hoping for.

His dick has taken an interest in the proceedings, interested in the way Sam begs—that’s it sweetheart, beg for me, bet you want my dick don’t you bet you want me to fuck you in all your tight little holes—

“No,” Sam gasps.

But he does. Or Dean does. Or something.

“Please don’t.”

“I don’t know, Sammy. How often do you get to take your favorite ride out for a test drive? Carpe diem. Live a little.” Sam’s fingers work while he talks, popping open the button on his jeans and taking the time to knead his erection through his open fly.

Sam groans.

“That’s it, baby boy.”

He peels off his jeans, stepping out of them and kicking them across the room. The boxers come next, but not right away. Dean takes his time, skimming Sam’s hands over the jut of his hipbones, the little patch of skin between his shirt and waistband. Dean palms Sam’s cock, rubbing him until he’s wet through the fabric.

“Stop.”

“But you want me so bad. I’m in your head, Sammy. I can  _ feel _ it.”

Sam shakes his head. Sam tries to shake his head. Sam doesn’t shake his head.

“I’m going to fuck you raw,” Sam tells himself. “Gonna fuck you until you’re begging for it. I’ll make you come screaming my name.”

He kind of wants to die, hearing those words come out of his own mouth. He kind of just wants to die period.

Dean is bored—Sam’s discomfort is cool but not the point. He’s good on heavy petting, had enough of that in the tenth grade, thank you very much, so he shucks Sam’s boxers and tosses them in the corner. Now he’s got one hand on Sam’s cock, the other scratching lightly up and down his thigh, and it makes Sam shiver.

Sam is watching through a window, through the underside of a glass bottom boat. Sam can cuss and holler and tell Dean that he’ll never, ever forgive him as long as they fucking  _ live, _ you motherfucker but Dean only laughs. Dean laughs and lets go of Sam’s cock for long enough to shove Sam’s fingers in his mouth, to suck them wet, making obscene slurping noises that make his dick ache, and Sam—Sam wrests back just enough control to dig his fingernails hard into the meat of his thigh, scoring four long, angry weals there.

Sam slaps himself in the face, so hard his teeth jar together and he bites himself on the tongue and tastes blood.

“What the fuck, Sam?”

Sam doesn’t say anything. Sam goes very far inside his own head, into the way-down place he built to hide from Dad, from Meg, from Lucifer, from Gadreel. He steps into a box where the colors are muted and the words are just noise and everything to do with his body has less to do with him.

He scratches his head. “Aw, c’mon, Sam, don’t be like that.”

Sam doesn’t say anything. Sam isn’t here.

Sam’s body is turned on, his dick still standing at attention, hard and ready. Dean licks Sam’s palm and curls a hand around his dick, pumping it from root to tip. He clambers onto the bed and spreads Sam’s legs, trails spit-sticky fingers down, down. Down past his balls to tap against Sam’s hole. He has to hoist one of Sam’s knees up to do it, contorting himself to reach. He pushes harder, the tip of one try finger just barely inching in.

“Sammy,” Sam’s mouth sing-songs. “Come back and I’ll be nice.”

Sam doesn’t want to. Sam isn’t here.

Dean is irritated or Sam is irritated. Dean is hurt or Sam is hurt. He pushes a finger into Sam’s hole, dry and tight and burning with the drag of it, skin against skin. He fucks himself idly, dragging his finger in and out—bored again. Bored already. His eyes cast around the room.

Dean’s body is lying lifeless strewn across the floor, and Sam flinches from the shock of it.

Sam tries to flinch.

Sam doesn’t flinch.

Sam shoves two fingers into his own asshole viciously, throat tearing on a yelp.

Dean’s green eyes have gone glassy, clouded dead corneas staring up at nothing. His skin is waxy and tinged with blue, and Sam wants it to stop, wants it to—“Stop stop stop please stop”—but Dean is after it like a dog with a bone, now. Like a shark scenting blood in the water, and he keeps Sam’s eyes open and he makes Sam watch because he wants Sam here with him and this is how you do it.

He gets Sam up on his hands and knees, peering over the edge of the bed so he can see, and Sam wants his eyes shut but Dean wants them open—Dean fucks him, using Sam’s long fingers to brush against that spot inside of him, the blunt pain of it giving way to a sickening veneer of pleasure, sensation sparking up through his spine.

“It’s not real not real not real—”

“—oh, it’s  _ very _ real. Big brother in the flesh. You wanna touch it? Do you wanna, Sammy do you—”

“—not real not real not real—”

He loves it, loves feeling Sam shudder and shake apart from the inside out, loves feeling the clench of his greedy asshole around those gunslinger fingers. He hates it—hates it hates it hates it and he hates himself, hates Dean, hates his body most of all.

Dean is almost gentle when he pulls out. There are smears of red on Sam’s fingers, a sharp ache when Dean sits Sam’s ass on the bed.

Sam can move again. It almost doesn’t matter. Sam doesn’t want to. He isn’t here.

He lays himself down on his side, staring at his brother’s body on the floor. Dean is quiet, now. It’s almost an apology.

He breathes, and it’s only breath. He curls his knees up to his chest, and he smells like blood and skin.

“I don’t want you to go,” Sam whispers, clinging to himself, hands wrapped around his own arms. It would be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic.

He would keep it to himself, but he  _ can’t. _ Forced into sharing everything with the only person he wants to share with. There’s no point in trying to hide. Dean’s in his head, in his heart and bones and muscle and guts.

His hands loosen their grip of their own accord. He strokes his own face gently, his other hand trailing to parts down south to give his soft, sensitive penis an affectionate squeeze. It makes Sam’s breath catch in his throat, and he twitches away, even as Dean grips tighter. He can’t get away from the sensation, so he sighs and gives in.

“I know you don’t, Sammy,” Dean says with Sam’s mouth. “But I gotta.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“Stay a little while longer?” Sam asks, aware he sounds pathetic, aware he sounds like a child. Aware that Dean’s never been good at saying no to him when he sounds like that—when he wants something—really, really wants something. If he’s aware of it, Dean is too. He can feel Dean’s amusement and love and crackling resentment at the blatant manipulation. “Please. Just until I fall asleep.”

Sam’s body sighs. “Fine,” it says. “Just until you fall asleep.”

Dean wrests control away from Sam again, and it’s easier this time. Sam is only too happy to let him have it, glad to let it go. Sam’s body tucks him into bed, pulling the covers up under his chin and wiggling to get comfortable. Sam’s body kisses him goodnight, pressing a chaste kiss against the inside of his palm. Sam’s face turns itself into the soft warmth of his pillow, and when his eyes drift shut without his say-so, he cherishes the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> Always here to scream about two dumbasses in love on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/lovetincture).


End file.
